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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26385937">Bestial</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStraggletag/pseuds/TheStraggletag'>TheStraggletag</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Once Upon a Time (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Belle gets to explore her monsterfucking nature, Carnival Row au, F/M, Faun!Rumple, Good for her</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 09:13:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,846</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26385937</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStraggletag/pseuds/TheStraggletag</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr Gold wishes people to see him as a gentleman, horns and all. But the person who he wants to impress the most happens to prefer the beast over the gentlemanly facade.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>104</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Bestial</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixTalon/gifts">PhoenixTalon</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Carnival Row AU</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He spotted her before she did, coming out of the small bookstore tucked between a modiste and a tea shop, slipping a slim volume into the pockets of her skirts. Her dress, as always, was outdated, the silhouette long fallen out of fashion and the colour somewhat faded, from a cobalt blue to something more akin to cerulean. She hadn’t taken great pains to pin her hair in place, which he knew was partly because there were only two maids working for her father, and neither could be spared to help her dress her hair in the mornings. Yet, with her hair only partially up and her modest clothing she outshone every primped peacock strutting around the park, intent on displaying their wealth.</p><p>He thought, foolishly, about offering her the refuge of his umbrella. The rain must have caught her by surprise, since she was without and umbrella of her own, but before he could reach her he saw Gregory Aston rushing forward with the same intent. He didn’t have to look around to know that the eyes of more than one woman were on the dashing Captain. He was a mixture of good looks and wealth that attracted a flock of devoted followers, eager single women hoping to snatch up the price of the season. Somehow, for some reason, he had set his sights on Belle, which was just as well. No use thinking about the impossible.</p><p>“Mr Gold!”</p><p>He turned at the sound of her voice, charmed as always by the way her lingering accent transformed his name. She was smiling at him and gesturing, and he knew that even if it was best to leave he would not. Instead, like the obedient little puppy he was, he approached her, trying to disguise his limp as much as possible. </p><p>“Good afternoon, Miss French. Would you permit me to escort you home?”</p><p>She would, he knew that. And without reservation. It made it all the more painful, that she wasn’t scornful of him. That she treated him like a person, like his inhuman nature mattered little to her. It gave unwelcome fodder to his secret hopes and desires. </p><p><em>‘Just because she tolerates the monster doesn’t mean she wishes to sleep with him’</em>, he reminded himself. She was kind, kinder than anyone he’d ever met. Of course this meant she would not shun him like others. Acceptance, however, wasn’t attraction. Wasn’t desire.</p><p>“That’s very kind, Mr Gold.”</p><p>She smelled like orange blossoms, and beneath that something headier, a scent that was wholly hers. A scent he could imagine grew intoxicating when she climaxed, or were he fortunate enough to bury his nose in her cunt. He shook his head, chastising himself for his ungentlemanly thoughts. Belle rested her hand on his arm, light enough not to interfere with the movement of his cane, as he was holding the umbrella with the other hand. </p><p>“Might I enquire after your new book, Miss French?”</p><p>It made him exceedingly proud to know her well enough to know what would get her talking. She excitedly told him about the poetry tome she had found in the clearance section, and the new novel she had splurged on. He listened intently, silently thinking that if she were his he would cede her control of his entire library. He could see her in his mind’s eye, laying amongst a nest of pillows on the bay window, engrossed in a book, hair half out of its nightly braid and nightclothes still on. An intimate, cosy scene. An impossibility.</p><p>They were halfway to their destination when they were rudely jostled by a passerby. His bad hoof protested as it slipped on the wet ground and he let go of the umbrella to hold his cane with both hands, managing to keep himself upright at the last second. The rain was coming down hard and even though he was quick to recover the umbrella they were quite drenched by the time they regained cover.</p><p>He turned around to apologise, trying to ignore the burning shame that he associated with his lame hoof, when he saw that Belle’s attention was on his horns. She looked confused but also strangely… in awe.</p><p>“Are your horns… gold?”</p><p>The polish must have washed away with the rain, he realised. He told himself not to fidget, not to reach up. Nevertheless he moved them both to an alleyway, knowing that there were narrower, emptier streets connecting it to their part of the neighbourhood. </p><p>“Yes. You must have realised, perhaps, that my horns are of slightly unusual shape. Less curved close to the head. It’s because I’m from a different country than most fauns you see. Most fauns come from Puyan. I myself hail from Ildathach. Can’t remember when it was the last time I saw someone from home. It’s something I try not to advertise. Ildathach is… not a place of good repute. Most fauns associate it with… darkness. Evil.” He smiled, a hollow gesture. “Prejudice is not an art reserved exclusively to humans, I’m afraid.”</p><p>He caught himself before he could reach for his horns to try and cover them up again. It wouldn’t do any good, he could already feel the shoe polish he used sliding down the sides of his face, making his humiliation complete. He startled when he felt cool cotton against his cheek, and looked up to see that Miss French had taken her handkerchief out and was studiously removing the polish, first from his skin and later from his horns. </p><p>“I’ve always meant to ask… can you feel when someone touches your horns? I apologise if it’s an insensitive question, I honestly don’t know.”</p><p>A cursory look at her reassured him she was merely curious. Insatiably so, but with no malice behind it. He nodded numbly, eyes fluttering close when she finished removing all traces of paint from his horns and reached out with her bare hand to run the tips of her fingers across them. She was… so soft. So careful in the way she touched him, so achingly tender. No one had been gentle with him, not once, in particular with his horns. His father had used them to drag him around as a child, and later he had used them to fight and survive. They were something that made him different, unwanted, both with humans and other fauns. </p><p>“Is this… is this alright?”</p><p>Her voice was quiet, soothing, and he knew that if he told her no she would stop and apologise profusely, and he could recover some distance and self-possession. It would be the smart thing to do, the right thing to do. Instead, he told her yes, that it was alright, more than alright. He held his breath as she glided the pads of her fingers across the slopes of his horns. They curled outwards more than most, making it sometimes difficult to pass through a door unless he turned his head sideways. They packed less of a punch, so to speak, than most faun’s horns, which meant he had had to adapt to make them deadly in a fight. Now he could use them with ease, flick his head and easily give someone a permanent scar, if not worse. He’d stabbed people in a fight, something most of his kind could not do. And yet Belle touched those horns without fear, as if they were beautiful. As if he was beautiful.</p><p>“<em>Oh, Rowan…</em>”</p><p>He shuddered at the sound of his name on her lips, tilting his head so he could nuzzle against the palm of her hand. He hated the gesture, so animalistic, so unlike the image he wanted to portray. He had spent decades crawling out of the hellhole he had been born in, cultivating a specific accent, a look and even a walk. And yet all he wanted to do with Belle was feral, animal-like. He wanted to fuck her, in the crudest, basest way there was to, wanted to nuzzle and sniff her and lick her like the fucking beast that he was. And the dangerous thing was that he realised now that Belle wanted that too. Sweet, educated, kind Belle wanted him to have his way with her, wanted things no genteel woman should. He could see it in her eyes, and he wondered at how he hadn’t noticed before. </p><p>He huffed, the sound decidedly inhuman, and dropped the umbrella, taking a few steps forward until he had Belle pressed against a nearby brick wall. He  buried his nose against her hair, enjoying her scent and her warmth as his fingers spanned her small waist, digging into the soft fabric of her open coat. She shivered against him but he could tell she wasn’t afraid, could smell her arousal and feel her body arch into his. Her hands settled on his shoulders, pulling him closer instead of shoving him away, and then snaked up his neck to press against the back of his head. He followed her wordless plea, pressing his lips against hers, trying to retain enough of his composure and sense of self to be mindful of his horns as he devoured her, the kiss more teeth and tongue than what he was sure someone like Belle would’ve ever been exposed to. She mewled against his mouth, an artless, wanton little sound that went straight to his groin. It was only the feel of the rain against his head and shoulders that stopped him, made him realise that he was about to deflower a fucking lady in the middle of an alleyway were anyone could see.</p><p>“Belle, we-” she bit his ear and his eyes almost rolled to the back of his head. He growled, but tried to keep it together. “We need to leave. Is… is your father expecting you home?”</p><p>She shook her head, and when he looked at her he was immediately captivated by her dishevelled look, from her messy, wet hair to her swollen lips. </p><p>“No, he… I told him I might spend the afternoon at the museum. I was about to go there when Captain Aston cornered me.”</p><p>The mention of Aston had him flicking his head, his horns itching to dig into the man’s flesh. </p><p>“Come home with me. Have a bath, dry your clothes.” He did not keep servants overnight, a rarity for a person of his means and social status. He rather preferred to be alone. He hired a cleaning service that set the house to rights in the morning, and a cook that was in charge of breakfast and lunch. He ordered dinner from a nearby restaurant. There would be no risk of anyone seeing her.</p><p>“That sounds lovely. Will you help me undress?”</p><p>The way she bit her lip shyly, a contrast with her bold question, disarmed him. She was like Diana the huntress, and he the foolish prey struck by her arrow. He would do as she commanded, and be glad of it. He nodded, like a good little boy, and was rewarded by one of her wide smiles.</p><p>“Let’s go, then.”</p>
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